


Halloween for Edmund Reid

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Drinking, Friendship, Gen, Halloween, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 06:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Edmund Reid has seen too many true horrors to be amused by the false ones.





	Halloween for Edmund Reid

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my amazing beta-reader, Grumpy Queer! The absolute best!

Edmund Reid, it is well known by his officers and staff, hates Halloween.

Every October 31st, he storms into the station house, his eyebrows already drawn close together, his shoulders raised, and barks at Artherton: “Occurrence Reports! Let us hear of this year’s ridiculous copycats. The crop of insolence and witless, unoriginal trickery that demands our attention.”

And every October 31st, Artherton recites a slew of mischief designed—as the Inspector claims—to cause him the most troublesome and _point_ less inconvenience. To ruin his day. To present an endless train of distractions from the _real_ business of the ward they all swore to serve.

On this Halloween, however, Edmund has no time to call for the latest incidents, because as soon as he strides through the door, Jackson leaps at him, his face obscured by a hideous mask. Edmund yelps, his voice as high-pitched as a school boy’s, and shuffles away from Jackson with an expediency that showcases an agility befitting of a much younger and athletic man.

Raising his mask to reveal his face, Jackson laughs. “Reid, I have to hand it to you. You move faster than I ever imagined possible.”

With his hand spread flat against his chest, as if to calm his heart, Edmund stares at Jackson, attempting to make him cower with a grave and imposing expression. He fails, and Jackson releases another hearty chuckle.

“No Occurrence Reports for you today.” Jackson says, as he pulls Edmund by the elbow and leads him back to the street. “Only ale.”

“But—”  

“No. Leave the incidents to your officers. They’ve seen you work these last few years. They’ll do your work without you.”

In the warm but dim light of the public house, Edmund slides into his seat, Jackson beside him, and orders a porter. Jackson, a whiskey.

When their drinks appear in front of them, Jackson breaks the silence. “You need to relax. It’s all in fun, you know.”

“This is not _fun_ , Captain. This is not _inn_ ocent.” Edmund raises his pint to his lips.

“Sure it is.”

“How can you _say_ that? Seeing what you have seen here?”

Jackson throws his head back and finishes his whiskey, then calls for another as he returns his glass to the table. “Because I understand the spirit of the day, and you don’t.”

Visions of eviscerated women flood Edmund’s mind. Misty images of bruises. Splayed bodies, fallen in unnatural positions, take residence in his brain, imprint on his retinas. “Perhaps I don’t.”

Jackson leans back in his chair. Easily, carelessly. “Today’s reports are full of—”

“Hooligans. Mischief-makers. _Real,_ earnest murderers, Jackson.”

“Yes, those,” Jackson says, his voice weary, as if he expected the judgement in Edmund’s tone. “But also the desperate.”

“ _Des_ perate?”

“Yes, desperate. And—”

“ _What_ , Captain? The sympathetic? The poor, downtrodden who deserve our mercy?”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“ _No.”_ He points at Jackson. “No. These men who appear in our Occurrence Reports this day—they only appear so because they seek to experience the excitement, the…” Edmund trailed off, searching his catalogue of language. “The _thrill_ of grotesque fame, some even cheap scares. But it all causes harm. It all causes disruption and disturbance in a ward that has seen enough of both. And I would put an end to it.”

“You look, do you not—”

“I _look_ , Jackson, for a world with some _sense.”_ He fills his mouth with drink, but swallows in a hurry. “ _I_ seek a world wherein the _poor and downtrodden_ realize, in their keen self-awareness, that a night of frivolity causes needless suffering and _hours_ of pointless work for the guardians of this city—”

“Oh, yes, the _saint_ ly.” Jackson raises his eyebrows and his glass with a mock-toast to Reid, to his forces, to the _guardians of this city._ “To the servants—the _self_ less servants—of this city.”

“You and the rest of the populace may mock us, Captain, but we are, at times, the only force that keeps this city safe.” Edmund drains his drink, then slams it on the table. “And I would see it kept intact, even at the expense of harmless frivolity.”

As Edmund rises from his seat, he spies Jackson’s mask on the bench. He seizes the twisted face and pockets it without a word. Jackson knows better than to protest.

When he re-enters his station house and approaches the desk, his eyes quickly check the corners of the room. Without preamble, he addresses Artherton. “See to it that this”—he tosses Jackson’s mask onto the desk—“is burned to fine ashes, Sergeant.”

Artherton nods. “With utmost speed, sir.”

Edmund returns the nod.

Nearby, officers turn their heads toward their Inspector and wait for the scorn and impatience typical of his late-October voice.

“Now then.” Edmund leans heavily on the desk, his hands clasped in front of him, and makes his officers wait no more. “Let us hear what this _wretched_ day has laid at our door.”   



End file.
